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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333236">cinnamon sugar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingForTheRevolution/pseuds/WritingForTheRevolution'>WritingForTheRevolution</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Chicago (City), Christkindlmarket, Hamilton Holiday Calendar, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:33:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingForTheRevolution/pseuds/WritingForTheRevolution</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex is told to stop working overtime and goes to a Christmas market instead.</p><p>Hamilton Holiday Calendar 2020</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>cinnamon sugar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Oh look I'm back! Merry Christmas.</p><p>No, I'm not dead.</p><p>Yes I'm continuing Missing You (and this one because I love it and I want more of my own story).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fridays at the office were always slow, but today, it was especially dead. Washington had left early for some appointment (Alex was reluctant to admit he hadn’t listened to exactly where his boss had been off to when Washington had paused in his office), Angelica had flown back to New York to spend the week of Thanksgiving with her family, Burr had locked his door, and Ben had been sorting through resumes for several hours.</p><p>While Alex would have normally taken advantage of his boss’s absence to set up his desk for working over the weekend or go start a debate with Jefferson (which he had been planning to do as soon as he’d read Washington’s email), he couldn’t do that. Their COO had made a point to stop by his office that morning to not-so-regretfully inform him that he was in danger of going over his allotted number of overtime hours and asked him if he could please not do that right before the holiday.</p><p>So Alex has resigned himself to leaving at five like a normal person.</p><p>Daley Plaza is visible from his window, and as he leans back in his chair, he catches the reflection of thatched roofs and dancing flames at the edge of the windowpane. His eyes wander down several dozen floors and land on the Christmas market in the plaza.</p><p>They’d been setting it up for a while, blocking off the plaza weeks before Thanksgiving and bringing in construction crews to set up the German-esque buildings in a sort of square formation. The Picasso statue has been fenced off, much to Alex’s dismay, and before they set up the lights, the small fire pits on the outskirts of the fence had been the only illumination in the face of winter’s four o’clock sunsets.</p><p>Alex has walked by it every night on his way to the train, and he has to admit, it looks amazing. There are lights strung across the booths and wound between the brittle branches of the trees, the crisp winter air carries the scent of cinnamon and fry oil, and he can just barely see metal lanterns and woolen angels in a couple of the booths facing Clark.</p><p>So that night, instead of turning right to head to the Blue Line, he turns left into the wind and crosses the street to the plaza.</p><p>The market is even more wonderful up close. After nodding to the security guards at the entrance and glancing at the narrow paths between the booths, Alex picks a random direction and starts walking. There aren’t very many people within the barriers, considering it’s a Friday night, and Alex lets his eyes wander over the trinkets in the booths more often than he watches what he’s walking toward. That decision immediately turns around and bites him in the ass when he slams face-first into another person, a muffled gasp his only warning.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” Alex mutters, rubbing his cheekbone as heat rushes to his ears. He swings his bag further over his shoulder and offers a hand to the person in front of him. “I wasn’t paying attention.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” the guy answers. He accepts Alex’s proffered hand and pulls himself up. Alex is immediately taken by the sheer amount of freckles scattered across his face. “Seemed like this is your first time seeing the place.”</p><p>“It is,” Alex says immediately. “I mean, I can see it from my office, but I haven’t actually been down here yet, and I got out of work early and figured I’d check it out.”</p><p>“It’s not that busy yet,” Freckles says. “It’s only November. Wait ‘til the week before Christmas when all the kids are off school and everyone wants a cute photo-op.”</p><p>“I’ll try to steer clear then.” Alex laughs. “Thanks.”</p><p>“I gotta get back to my booth, but it was nice meeting you,” Freckles says. “Or, running into you, I guess.” He holds out a gloved hand. “John.”</p><p>Alex takes it and glances up into “Alex.”</p><p>. . .</p><p>Alex makes good on his promise to Ben and doesn’t go into the office that weekend even though he keeps reaching for a bag that should be full of in-progress files and a laptop that doesn’t connect to the company servers. He scrolls through a dozen recipes, finds exactly zero that he likes, and texts Eliza for more suggestions. He cleans his kitchen and actually folds his socks for once, and finds his way back to a couple dusty copies of medical malpractice case law that he hasn’t had time to reread. By the time Monday rolls around, he’s forgotten that he had two full days off.</p><p>The first person to stop by his office is Washington, of course. He gets there almost as early as Alex does.</p><p>“I heard you weren’t here over the weekend for once, Alexander,” he says.</p><p>“Ben seemed worried enough over the resumes without having to deal with me and my obscene amounts of overtime,” Alex says easily, still typing. “I figured I wouldn't stress him out any more than he had to be."</p><p>“I’d like it if you’d do it more often,” Washington says sternly. He steps back toward the doorway. “Take some time for yourself, son.”</p><p>Alex waits until he’s sure Washington can’t hear him before he mutters, “Not gonna happen, sir.”</p><p>The sky has long been dark outside his window before Alex realizes what time it is. He resists the urge to set an alarm for seven and work for another few hours, but Ben really doesn’t want him working overtime.</p><p>The train screeches in the distance, and even though there will definitely be another one in five minutes, Alex lets his feet take him toward Daley Plaza instead.</p><p>It’s as quiet as it was last Friday, and Alex picks a different direction to wander. He pays slightly more attention to who’s in front of him this time, thankfully managing to avoid someone nearly spilling their drink down his coat. He makes it past a few of the booths he saw before he hears his name from one of the ones behind him.</p><p>“Hey, Alex, you’re back!”</p><p>“I was off over the weekend,” Alex replies, stepping close to the counter even as it digs into his ribs. “Usually I don’t follow that rule, but our Chief Operating Officer told me that I’ve almost gone over my forty hour overtime limit for the month again, so I forced myself to stay home.”</p><p>John stares at him. “What do even you do that you consistently work forty hours of overtime?”</p><p>“I’m a lawyer,” Alex says proudly. “Personal injury.”</p><p>“I fucking died in law school,” John says, and then winces. “Sorry. Law is what my dad wanted me to do. I hated it and went in a very different direction. You’re probably really good at it if you like it that much.”</p><p>“No hard feelings; it’s not for everyone.” Alex glances across the booth, the ornaments sparkling brilliantly in the light. “It look like going in a different direction paid off, though.”</p><p>John definitely blushes. “Thanks.”</p><p>“So what are your Thanksgiving plans?” Alex asks. “Or are you sticking around here that day?”</p><p>“Well, I mean, this—” He gestures to his booth. “—is open through Thanksgiving. I, however, was coerced into going home for a couple days of family time.”</p><p>“Where’s home?” Alex asks.</p><p>“South Carolina,” John says. “I really don’t hate it as much as I made it sound. I’m just awkward as hell around my extended family.” He straightens one of his ornaments. “What about you? Where’s home?”</p><p>Alex laughs. “The Caribbean, originally, but I don’t really have any ties there. New York, I suppose, but I’m not traveling, so I guess it’s here. I’ll be trying not to burn the pie I promised I’d make for my friend’s Thanksgiving.”</p><p>“Can’t cook?”</p><p>“I can cook,” Alex says. “Baking, though, is a different story.”</p><p>“Gotcha,” John says. “Well, I won’t be here; Ari’s in charge for a few days. But I’ll be back after that.”</p><p>“I’ll bring some of my pie if it isn’t burned,” Alex promises, and John laughs.</p><p>On Wednesday night, Alex walks to the train instead of the market at five o’clock and pretends he doesn’t miss the electric smile of someone he’s just barely met.</p>
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